“Oh, am I?” his mom asks. “I haven’t even gotten started.”

•  •  •  •  •  •

“We probably should have just let them believe it,” Andrew says later. We’re slumped in the hammock in his backyard, cocooned in a pile of coats to keep warm. It’s still a little too cold to be outside, but the thought of being in the same house with our parents after everything that’s just happened is too unpleasant. “They didn’t even seem mad when they thought it was ours.” He pushes his leg against the ground so that the hammock begins to swing. “If I knew they were gonna flip about the party, I would have just gone with it, you know?”

So our parents are making us get part-time jobs through the rest of the year. They’re disappointed we’re not being, in their words, trustworthy or dependable, and they think getting jobs will help teach us discipline. Which is messed up. It’s not like I’ve never worked. I spent my last two miserable summers bagging groceries at the local market, making awkward chitchat with all my parents’ friends when they came by the register. Andrew is the one who’s reckless, who acts impulsively, who jumps off cliffs with his eyes closed. I’m the one who’s always waiting at the bottom with the safety net.

This is the last semester of senior year. Last year when I was stressed about homework and the SATs, freaking out about getting into college, I was always so envious of the seniors who got to goof off, joking with teachers and skipping class like it didn’t matter. But I was just waiting for my turn. I knew one day I’d be able to float through the hallways too like I’d already finished. Now our parents are taking that away.

Not to mention these are my last few months with Andrew and Hannah.

“I can’t believe I’m in trouble too when it wasn’t even my party.” I pull a coat tighter around me to stay warm.

“Your birthday, your party,” he answers. “Besides, you’re an accessory to the crime. When you see a crime being committed and say nothing, that makes you responsible.”

“I’m not responsible, remember? I’m untrustworthy and undisciplined.”

“Yeah, you’re pretty terrible,” he agrees.

The sky is a bright gray, giving the illusion that we’re in a cloud. The bare branches of the trees above us stretch out like fingers. Inside the house, the windows are lit up by warm light. I can see Andrew’s mom emptying the dishwasher in the kitchen.

“That was weird earlier,” I say. “I can’t believe they thought we were . . . we . . .” I can’t say it, can’t get my mouth to wrap around the words. Instead, I laugh, shoving him slightly with my shoulder under the pile of coats. “Your mom clearly hasn’t met Party Andrew.”